


I Am Not a Dirty God (I Don't Have a Dirty Body)

by ADevilsHunger (Dream_tempo)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Percy Jackson Fusion, Basically, Body Hair, Breeding, But so goes Greek mythology y'know, Come Marking, Demigods, Fauns & Satyrs, Greek Mythology - Freeform, House Party, I messed with that canon too, Kilts, Kinda, M/M, Mentions of Beastiality, Punk Derek, Satyr!Derek, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Sex Pollen, Son of Aphrodite!Stiles, Worldbuilding, musk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/ADevilsHunger
Summary: Derek's the first satyr to attend a local school for assimilating demi-gods into common culture and it's not been going well. There seems to be a lot they find affronting about the young fertility spirit and he attends a spring break party trying to better fit in with the others. It's going relatively well until Stiles and his brothers arrive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Been prompted satyr!Derek a couple times at my blog and loved the idea from the get go, but was really struggling writing something I was happy with. This got completely rehauled several times before I finally landed with this. I hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> Title stolen from the Front Bottoms song Legit Tattoo Gun because I may have graduated college now, but inside of me is still that skate rat queer from middle school that is in love with shitty pop-punk. 
> 
> Beta'd by fatcamp, you're a hero. :)

There's the way Derek sees himself and the way things truly are, and he's been struggling to reconcile the two lately-- unsure of which he's got all muddled. Contemplating the answer while drawing patterns in an orange-ish, lumpy suede couch and trying to ignore the couple obnoxiously feeding each other by hand just a few feet away doesn't seem like the ideal time or place to try and figure it out, but that's where he's at regardless. The air is filled with an almost nauseating mixture of sweet and dense smokes, some song filled with too much bass is making it feel like his food is trying to reverberate back up his esophagus, and the combined body heat is nearly making this basement sweltering. On top of it all, he keeps being knocked out of his thoughts by the occasional hip check, hitting the back of his head on the way past, but he keeps on it anyway, glad for the distraction of his surroundings.

Watching all of his classmates avoid him—huddling in small clusters as they laugh and dance and make up bizarre, pointless games to pass the time—he wonders if he's really had himself all wrong, perhaps his whole life. His family found him relatively likable, excepting when he got into sullen moods. He'd made plenty of friends that came around the smattering of caves they lived in at the center of the preserve. He'd even been recruited into the school all these kids came from. Half-bloods, all of them, not trying to play the hero, but instead attempting to normalize their experiences and make a semblance of a home for themselves.

He didn't  _ quite _ fit, but only on the tiniest of semantics. So his lineage didn't come from the direct coupling of humans and the Pantheon, so what? Being a satyr, he still belonged with them, served with them, was a part of their world. And yet, the seat next to him has stayed empty the whole night, despite there only being four others available that weren't the floor. People smile and wave at him, but never approach, and he's given a wide berth any time he gets up to refill his drink. They were all accepting of him on the base level—being the receptor of unique abilities that had set them apart from birth themselves meant a general understanding—but aside from an outsider’s unity in sanctuary, they had little interest in liking him for him.

He thought he'd been doing well to meet a happy medium with all the demi-gods here, trying to appease their more delicate natures. None of them were human, not entirely, and so he didn't get why they all judged him by human standards. But he tried to adhere to them anyway, just to try and stave off the affronted looks and skittish demeanor they offered him. He'd washed and combed his hair into a shape he'd seen on many of the other boys in class, worn a denim vest, though he couldn't tolerate a shirt, and even a flexible black kilt (they would never get him in pants—those things felt like they were a poacher's trap, keeping him immobile for the kill and harvest of his horns).

This was him, trying. It wasn't like his first day when he'd shown up with twigs and leaves in his fur, when everyone had stared with wide eyes at his exposed sheath and the juggle of his furry, softball sized nuts. His tail had twitched anxiously all day, his velvety ears flickering as though alit with flies—unable to miss all the sordid whispers about him, his kind. He was the only satyr in the whole school, and by the way they acted, maybe the first one these kids had ever met. Derek hadn't been expecting that, was even relying upon others to teach him how to behave around the young demi-gods.

When it was left to him, this is what they got, and apparently they found it lacking. He curled in on himself as he took occasional, uninterested drags from the clove cigarette kept lit between his fingers, knowing the strong smell of the smoke was something his peers all found much preferable to his own, natural, animal musk. When he blanketed himself in the reek of it, people talked to him more freely, for longer, and didn't act like he was an unintelligent brute. They saw his hooves and his horns and treated him like an animal unless he played by their specific rules.

He could wear the clothes (they were interesting sometimes and he liked the variety of them), combing his hair and his fur felt nice sometimes, and he loved learning all their colloquialisms and behaviors, but he wanted to share with them his own, and that was where the friendly relation seemed to break down. 

No one thought it was interesting how his tastebuds found tin cans and paper just as delicious and nuanced as cheeses and berries. No one wanted to discuss the interchangeability of human shame and the idea of 'decency' that kept him from baring his skin like he wanted. They all judged him for receiving school sanctioned breaks three times a day to go masturbate in a small room they'd cleared just for him, coming back afterwards happily reeking of and covered in his own cum.

It was just his nature. He wasn't a lecherous boy, he was a satyr. Did they think his balls were that fat just for the vulgar show? It hurt if he didn't empty them often enough, a legitimate ache that kept him from concentrating on his work. He was a creature of fertility, and so just as Ares' children were blunt and overeager, as Athena's were quick-witted and cerebral-- he was virile. He smelled the way he did because he was covered in fur all the way up to his navel and from his elbows down. Pissing indoors felt unnatural, scratching his ass was just an instinct. Gnawing on anything put in front of him, impatiently climbing up and leaping off surfaces, rolling in dirt and grass--unacceptable, apparently.

It sunk him into a sullen streak for the first time in his life, lasting days instead of the hours his family was used to when he was chastised too strongly or upset over an animal friend finding their time to pass, but he'd thought coming here might help. Honestly, Derek was shocked he was even invited, but with how small their class was, he supposed it would have been utterly cruel not to. A party to kick off spring break, all the young demi-gods feeling the thrum of the mating season in their veins, electrifying their acute senses. He felt it too, like this itch at the bottom of his spine that was pulling him in every direction at once. He thought maybe, with that and the ample introduction of the ambrosia and nectar being passed around to get them loose and heady, they might overlook the things they judged him so harshly on before.

It was early into the night yet—no one quite gone on the highs afforded them—but they did seem friendlier, though anyone had yet to approach him. He'd received all smiles, hadn't caught anyone gossiping about him within earshot, even got some pats on the shoulder in passing. It wasn't what he'd wanted, but he was taking what he could get. Disappointed with his expectations, yet more or less pleased with the progression, he'd been sure the night was a success on a base level—until Stiles floated into the room.

Derek wasn't sure if it was his own fluttery feelings about the beautiful boy, or an actual gift of his, but it seemed as though Stiles merely glided everywhere he went, feet never quite touching the ground. It could be one of those abilities of the demi-gods, hard to process for the way reality blurred around them... It could just be the massive crush Derek had somehow nursed to ridiculous proportions in the few months he'd been here.

Stiles was a son of Aphrodite, and so a beauty few could match. He came in with a veritable harem of his brothers—Jackson and Isaac and Mason setting the room a-titter. They were all gorgeous in their own ways, their resemblance only that they were all striking, but Derek found none of them so captivating as Stiles. His delicate, upturned nose. His dark beauty marks against pale skin. The plush pink of his lips and extremities. Those whiskey colored eyes.

His true beauty came outside of his body though, in the way he was so disarming. He could make anyone laugh, even those determined to dislike him. Self deprecating and utterly goofy and with a great capacity for understanding given the time, he drew you in simply by being around. He made you want to come to him, because it was so easy to be around him. It was fun and simple and  _ nice  _ and Derek craved that in the wake of isolation he'd been feeling so harshly.

But what would a beauty like that want with a brute like him? Derek tucked his hands under his arms, knowing the dark hair underneath smelt strongly, clacked his hooves together nervously and tried not to stare. All too often he got caught watching with his teeth working any random thing around him like cud. Stiles only ever laughed softly and winked at him for it, but Derek felt the embarrassment burn deep.

If all the others could hardly stand to even be around him, what chance was there that Stiles wasn't just being nice about his drooling obsession? Still, his heart hoped for him even when his brain said not to, and the fat heave of his balls beneath his kilt certainly begged for their share of attention. He'd never had to try and mitigate the overwhelming sensation from them before—freely pleasured himself and plenty of his animal friends at his leisure his whole life—but now didn't seem like a particularly great time to be showing off his wet erection and asking Stiles if he'd like to mouth at the low hanging handful below.

Don’t get him wrong, plenty enjoyed the natural high that came from his sexual stink-- it was not a rare thing for satyrs to offer themselves as pleasure favors for others to partake in, but these young demi-gods would probably not find that situation decent. The natural pheromones that came from his meaty testicles and copious cum could be stronger than marijuana and often brought on multiple, languorous orgasms that took quite long to end. Bedding with a satyr tended to be a weekend commitment, one to get strung out on, lost in.

It was supposed to be one gift his kind could give. Couples that wanted a child could invite them to scent their room, to be an active partner, or to do the seeding themselves, and the breeding always took in their company, even among those that had been claimed infertile. Crops grew amply and cross-bred in strange combinations near their caves, animal populations flourished, spring lasted longer. But somehow, here, he was found in manner to be an ugly thing.

Derek wiped his sweaty palms along his kilt, swallowing thickly in the reverie. He couldn't remember the last time he wasn't brimming with easy confidence and exuberant recklessness, but apparently other teenagers were enough to steal it from him. “Aw, don't frown so much, sour stuff. You'll give this handsome face premature wrinkles.” Derek startles as a firm, dexterous thumb presses at the furrow between his brows, trying to smooth it out.

Stiles' face is shooting him a sarcastic, friendly smile as the backs of his other fingers brush over the hinge of Derek's scruffy jaw before he pulls his hand away. He smells like bruised flower petals and herb infused oils and sugared cream—all lush, saturated things. Derek can't help the way his eyelids flutter and he chases after it, leaning into Stiles' space on the couch and letting out a quiet, stuttered bleat in the frustration of not being able to resume the contact. The aggressive, brackish sound makes every inch of bare skin on him flush and he ducks his head.

Stiles grins, lips splitting wide, eyes glowing, and curls in, creating a little bubble of their own space here in public. “You know, I've been wanting to pick your brain about something for-fucking-ever, but it seems like you're always leaving some place just as I get there.” There's a knowing twitch of his nose and mouth at this, but he just seems amused at Derek's avoidance, like it's a cute game they've been playing.

“Oh?” Is the genius answer that's all Derek can come up with, busy eyeing the long column of Stiles' throat, his exposed collar bones in this sweater he's wearing that's so loose knit it's practically sheer.

“Ya.” Stiles laughs a little again, reaches out to idly play with the splay of patches and buttons on Derek's denim vest, rustling the front to make them clack together. “It's... a little weird, but no one here likes to talk about this stuff, even though I think it's totally fascinating and I think they're missing the bigger picture, but anyway.” His hands spasm as he seems to physically wave away his own pretext, shaking his head at his motor mouth. “I just thought it would be cool to see how different we are, being flip sides of the coin, y'know? Satyrs are all about masculine fertility and hedonistic thriving and you were made from the blood of Ouranos seeding the land and all. And my mother came from the foam of his body hitting the sea, and she—and by extension me—is the female counterpoint, right? Love and lust and beauty, just with that rose-tint-allure of femininity.”

Stiles shrugs, eyes cast down to where he's playing with the hem of Derek's vest and he chews his lips idly, making them swell and darken. Derek's.... hard. He hopes Stiles can't smell that his dick is already wet from this, but odds are it won't take long. Who knew idle, dense conversation would be a total turn-on for him? “I-I never thought of it that way, but you're totally right.” He scoots ever closer, their hips near to touching, and lays his head against the back of the couch, trying to position it so his horns don't dig into his head.

“Ya man, like all my brothers and sisters try and talk about our domain like it's Valentine's Day incarnate, but that's totally putting the kid's gloves on it. Just because we call our pheromones perfume and yours musk doesn't change the fact that we're both secreting them and pretty much giving everyone contact highs that want to make them bone until they're dehydrated.” Stiles snorts, and somehow even that is charming.

Derek swoons. “Rut's good though. Even though they don't want to admit it, they all enjoy it. It relaxes them, connects people, all that. No one's happier than when they're cum-dumb.” Stiles grins and his fingers dance a little before letting go of the denim to sneak underneath, rub at where Derek's fur blends into the silkier pelt of hair on his belly. Derek arches into it, juts his hips and if it weren't for the damn kilt would be presenting his vulgar cock for Stiles to partake.

“W-wow. You're--. I've never been on the other end of this before.” Stiles' eyes are half lidded and his breath is coming short, cycling quickly as he huffs in Derek's scent. He's the first person in a long time that seems to be enjoying it, actively chasing the ripeness. “Everyone in my dorms smells like they've been rolling around in Bath and Body Works for a decade. You're....  _ Sexy. _ ”

Derek fucking preens, closing the distance to practically put himself in Stiles' lap. “Ya? You like that?” His voice comes out husky, but smug, finally finding that bit of overconfident boy he’s used to. “You should come to my cave then. I've marked every inch of it. I think we could feed into each other for a heat that would last the whole week. I'd feed you cum covered grapes while you massage my balls to get another full load churning.” He didn’t mean for this light flirting to escalate that quickly, but Stiles started smelling like overripe blood oranges and it’s making Derek’s nipples tight and his ass clench.  _ God,  _ he’s amazing. 

When he looks to the other boy’s face, it's Stiles turn to blush now and his eyes even flash at it, his expression utterly demure. “Ya? You want to ravish me, goat boy? Haul your captured beauty to the wild and ruin him?” His hands move to pull Derek to straddling, apparently not minding the quick pace as they move to run up under his kilt and pet at his furry legs, grip his swishing tail and give a teasing yank.

Derek shakes at the sudden and steep turn of this-- perhaps he should have had a conversation with Stiles a long time ago. It might take them many hours and several dickings to get through a single subject, but the talk was genuinely interesting before they got a little... preoccupied. “I've got a new Front Bottoms album, stockpiled some ambrosia and nectar for some special  _ me _ time at home. I'd be happy to share.” Derek wriggles, eager, and can't stop himself from ducking his head to butt his horns against Stiles' chest, playful and excited.

Stiles laughs and grips at them, shakes Derek around a little before letting go and then allowing his warm, obscene hands slide down Derek’s neck, through his chest hair, cupping at the round of his pecs that're equal muscle and fat. “So long as you understand this totally doesn't count as a first date and I want to be wined and dined even though I like to put out.” Stiles pinches at Derek's dusky nipples and it sets about a momentary short circuit of his brain. He bleats again, rocks his hips in a stuttering roll, nearly wets himself to freshen his muted scent.

He’s been suppressing this for so long, it takes a lot to come back to himself, to not just flip Stiles over right there and fuck him in front of everybody—let them see the heft of his balls as they smack into this demi-gods pretty, little ass. Derek shakes and sweats, as though struck by fever, and hops off, needing to be cantering over the ground and to his cave  _ right now _ . “No one's ever wanted to date me before because they think I only fuck, but I really, really wanna go out with you.”

Stiles’ mouth slowly splits into a nearly manic grin and without words, he surges up from the couch to consume Derek's mouth in a kiss, licking against his lips until they open, stroking his tongue down over his blunt teeth, sealing their mouths together wet and sloppy and sucking. It's like he's trying to slurp bone marrow from Derek's mouth and it makes the poor kid start cumming right then and there. Thick, sticky gouts soak through his kilt and then slosh to the floor, matting the pilled shag carpet and releasing a fresh, salty musk that immediately starts to permeate the room.

“Oh shit,” Derek murmurs, hips jerking uncontrollably, gripping so tight to Stiles he’s sure he’ll leave bruises. He’s concerned for just a moment that he fucked all this up, that Stiles will hate him for creaming himself and soaking their feet in jizz before they ever even got to do anything, but then he catches Stiles' feral, gleeful grin. For a moment they just stare at each other, unfazed by that lewd splatter between them, drawn together until their noses are blushing, but then they’re broken apart by a loud clatter coming from across the basement. 

They turn to look at everyone in the room around them, Derek still jerking with aftershocks, splattering smaller, but not insignificant amounts of jism down Stiles' front and onto the floor (he probably won’t be done for another minute or two, it always takes this long) and find their classmates all stopped dead in their tracks, looking back, shuddering as their eyes start to cloud over. Plastic cups, ping pong paddles, phones and food all get dropped as they take in deep breaths and tents are pitched across the floor. 

Whatever high horse dignity they'd been displaying before is about to fly out the window. Derek sticks a hand down the back of Stiles' pants, cups his ass and dips his fingers into the crack as they watch the others start to draw into groups and pairs, making desperate, hungry noises as they clamor to find some partners. Jackson even scampers between Isaac's legs, pushing his chiseled face into his half-brother's groin and moaning at his scent. “Well this is about to be a spring send-off no one is going to forget.”

Stiles turns back into Derek with a smile, reaching his hand down the front of his kilt to start playing with the mess the satyr made, happily taking in that he's still hard, even through his first orgasm. This party just might end up being everything Derek was looking for.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I could pretty easily be persuaded to make this into a porny series featuring one shots of all the TW boys in this universe having a raunchy time as different mythological creatures. So lemme know if you're interested. I know this one is a bit of tease. Sorry.


End file.
